


The Type

by gyromitra



Series: And no one realized [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 1st one, A little bit of violence, F/M, Female!Jack, Genderbending, a little bit of sex, how do I English, it's just strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyromitra/pseuds/gyromitra
Summary: Apparently, Reaper has a type. Of course it's blonde.





	

Reaper admits he has a type. Always had.

 

***

 

The first time Reaper meets the infamous Soldier 76 is an afterthought. He is bored and the vigilante seems like a moment of welcome distraction. They clash, and Reaper goes for the kill.

Then, when he has Soldier pinned, comes the realization no one yet put together. 76 is a woman, and Reaper feels an instant tug of arousal. He definitely has a type. His talons twitch on her neck as he leans close to that mask.

“I wonder, who would pay the most to know that the little boy scout they all search for is in fact a girl scout,” he laughs.

“A girl scout that can kick your ass,” 76 answers in raspy mechanical monotone. Still, she remains motionless, even when Reaper closes the distance between their masks. He can feel it, the arousal coming from the danger, the adrenaline high, the tunnel vision. He can hear the irregular heartbeat, the hitch in her breath, the heat coming off of her in waves.

“You smell of sex,” he says simply, and she snorts, bringing up her rifle in a way that shouldn’t be humanly possible, its butt getting him on the underside of the jaw. At the same time she kicks, throwing him back, before he has a chance of clenching his claws and ripping out the flesh.

He lets her go. 

 

***

 

It isn’t until a month later that he spots 76 again. Widowmaker, ever so helpful, points her out first.

“Stay on objective,” Reaper barks. Seconds later he is shadowing the vigilante. Her movements are born from unyielding repetition, fluid, catlike. Anyone but someone with years of military training would be shivering and crying from muscle exertion needed just to keep up that stance, that pace. The way she darts from cover to cover, and…

76 turns around, firing the rifle straight at him with deadly accuracy, shot after shot. Reaper reforms and snarls, going straight down, but she’s gone, and the game of cat and mouse begins. It is only after they both do bleed that she lightly steps forward, rifle held to his mask. Sound of metal on metal makes him curl his lips in want.

“I wonder what’s hidden underneath, girl scout?” He slowly raises Hellfire, barrel scarping the inside of her thigh, lightly.

“Nothing much,” comes the reply, somehow amused despite the digitalization. 

“Really? Then why wear it?” Hellfire stops just below her crotch.

“Says the guy wearing stylized deer skull, Reaper.”

“Glad we are on the first name basis, mi pequeño ratoncito…”

76 pulls the trigger and doesn’t let go for several seconds. It is a bit sloppy, rather painful, but brings Reaper a definite satisfaction of getting under her skin.

 

***

 

She is not young (can’t be realistically) – neither exactly old. He can see telltale signs of enhancements: the pure, unadulterated violence, the reckless charge in face of the inferior enemy, the resilience – especially after she eats that grenade. 

Reaper ghosts after 76, following her to her hideout, a semi abandoned warehouse, and she doesn’t hide, smell of blood heavy in the air.

“You’re not overly subtle,” her visor glimmers in the darkness, red reflecting in the surface of the rifle. Reaper absentmindedly raises his hands, no weapons in sight.

“Never intended to, mi mariposa…” His voice is mocking just enough that a bullet pierces his hood, another proof of her marksmanship. Reaper growls and charges into an unforgiving dance of blow matched with blow. 76 tires, blood loss no doubt taking its toll, her breath labored, and it makes him hard.

Somehow, in-between, she pins him to the ground, elbow on his throat, and reaches down to the buckle of his belt. 

They rut fast, brutal and violent, soldiers on a battlefield, her pants only half off. His claws digging into her wounds. Her hands on his throat. It ends as suddenly as it started, and there is no afterglow, only an affirmation of survival.

“Pathetic,” 76 says, zipping up, and it is unclear if she refers to him, herself, or the whole situation. She bends down and gathers the rifle, soon standing over him. “Scram.”

Reaper smiles lazily under his mask.

 

***

 

Reaper has a type. 

It’s a woman that pins him down in the trenches, her shoulder bandaged, with blood seeping through, her hands shoving him down as she takes and gives by herself, freely, blond hair everywhere around her face and blue eyes with pupils blown focused on him. She screams and bites his fingers as he gasps her name among the smell of death, gunpowder and ozone. It’s an affirmation of survival.

It’s a woman that coldly and methodically almost kills a man with her own bare fists, one he would tear apart himself gladly, and then smiles like a sun at him.

It’s a woman that matches his every step even if they do fall apart into millions of broken pieces later.

But he can compromise.

 

***

 

76 sits in a dark corner of the warehouse, curled around her rifle, healing. She has a type, but for the time being it seems to be, as she chuckles to herself mirthlessly, an unrepenting asshole.

**Author's Note:**

> Non-english speaker, criticism welcome - a funny exercize after few years of hardly witing anything.


End file.
